


A Shock to the System

by MaryPSue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, warning for Bill being Bill and mentions of canonical torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with little things. Minor anomalies, things Ford can - and does - easily brush off. But as their number grows, he finds himself growing more and more uneasy. Something here isn't right.</p><p>...</p><p>The voyages of the Stan o' War II are upheaved, a defeated foe gets one last laugh, and the Pines Twins Classic find themselves tested on the high seas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shock to the System

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who came here hoping for the One and the Same AU...sorry. This isn't it.

There's a point that comes somewhere between the second and third time Ford loses consciousness from the agony of thousands of volts of electricity coursing through him, causing all his muscles to seize and every nerve to light up like a supernova, or perhaps from the weight of his own body, dangling from the chains that encircle his wrists and crushing the breath out of him. It's at this point that Bill tucks a finger under Ford's chin and gently tilts Ford's head back to face his single, staring eye. There's something almost tender in the gesture, and that burns worse than the white heat of the manacles against the raw flesh of Ford's wrists.

"READY TO TALK?" Bill asks. Ford wants to spit in his eye, but the energy isn't there. He lets his head drop back down against his chest before he speaks.

"There's nothing you can do to me that will make me give you that equation," Ford breathes, and Bill tuts, like a disapproving schoolmarm. 

"SOUNDS LIKE  _SOMEBODY_  WANTS ANOTHER ROUND! HEY, LET'S SEE HOW HIGH WE CAN MAKE THE VOLTAGE BEFORE HIS HAIR LIGHTS ON FIRE!"

This suggestion is met with a chorus of raucous cheers and laughter from the assembled group of Bill's henchmen. Ford braces himself for the shock, and is completely unprepared for another incongruously gentle touch instead, this time to his cheek.

"YOU'LL COME AROUND SOON," Bill says, and it sounds strangely like a promise.

Ford opens his mouth to spit defiance, but another massive shock slams his jaw closed.

...

Panic makes Ford clumsy as he tugs his sweater over his head, fear of what he and Stanley are about to do, fear of what could happen to the world - to the  _twins_  - if either of them delay a moment too long. He tries not to wince as the knit brushes over the burns around his wrists, his neck, the Lichtenberg figures splashed across his chest. He's just thankful that, against all odds, he's still standing. He's just thankful the sweater wasn't acrylic.

"Here," he says, turning to hand the sweater to his brother, and falters. Stanley's back is turned, his shirt off, and the brand that Ford had burned into his back so many years ago is clearly visible. It's not the only scar marring that expanse of skin. 

Stan turns around, his eyebrows rising a little at the sight of Ford, but thankfully he doesn't waste time asking about Ford's own scars. "Thanks," he mutters, as he reaches out to take the sweater from Ford's outstretched hand.

Ford can  _hear_  the spark jump.

"Ow!" Stan pulls back, a smile cracking his face despite the way he's shaking his hand out, the way his other hand is, just slightly, shaking on its own. "Maybe we don't need to go to all this trouble - just get you and yer static charge to shake that monster's hand."

Ford manages a smile of his own, but then the knowledge that this is the last time he will ever joke with his brother like this crashes over him again, threatening to swallow him whole.

...

Nightmares are only to be expected after a major traumatic event, and there are few events Ford can think of more major or traumatic than the end of the world.

Still, in amongst the expected nightmares (the vast slot-machine whirl of symbols in Bill's single eye, the twins' screams, Stanley's blank stare) is one that recurs and recurs, though Ford can find no reason for his mind to have chosen this moment to latch onto and embellish when there are so many possible horrors it could be inventing, so many almost-failures it could be rewriting. There is no reason for a temporary loss of consciousness - which, frankly, had come as a relief after what must have been hours of increasingly extreme electrocution - to have affected Ford so deeply that he revisits it almost every other night.

Though it doesn't make sense, Ford finds himself little inclined to question it. He much prefers the sensation of sinking into a quiet, featureless darkness to Dipper and Mabel's faces as Bill crushes them in one massive fist, Stanley's screams as Bill flays his mind for daring to try to put one over on the great Bill Cipher.

At least after the fainting nightmares, he can attempt to return to sleep.

...

It's a relief to escape the - the Mystery Shack, with all its reminders, its museums to Ford's failures. He'd been wary at first about inviting his brother along on this research trip - it's been a long time, they're both grown men now, and practically strangers to each other after thirty years in different worlds. Their dreams are very different than they were when they were twins on the Jersey shore, aren't they?

Still, every time Ford makes Stanley laugh and remembers when he'd thought he'd never share a joke with his brother again, every time he catches Stanley looking at nothing in particular with a smile on his face, Ford knows he made the right decision.

He'd really thought the sea air, humid as it is, would have discouraged the buildup of static electricity, but within the first week at sea, Ford shocks Stan a grand total of thirty-four times and accidentally shorts out their GPS. Stan laughs it off, and so does Ford, at first.

It's only after Stanley reboots the GPS that Ford realises no charge ever seems to build on his brother.

...

Mabel has a couple of friends who, as it turns out, just so happen to be an undersea prince and princess and major players in the negotiation of an interoceanic peace pact, so for the first part of their voyage, Stan and Ford have an escort. The honour guard dwindles as they move further north - fewer species are acclimatised to life in the icy Arctic waters, and those that are bear only the most theoretical of obligations to Prince Mermando and his queen. No one is challenging them for dominion over their own waters. No one would be foolish enough to attempt it.

Still, even as they near the Arctic Circle, every so often a sleek brown head will breach the surface near their boat, intelligent eyes winking in a handsome seal face, and Ford will feel another rush of love and gratitude to the grand-niece who cared so much about two old men that she waded into the middle of an international political situation just to make sure they would reach their destination safely.

The  _aurora borealis_  are particularly vivid, and only grow more so the farther north they go, gaining new depth and colour every night as Stan and Ford take turns on deck, keeping watch under brilliant skies. The nights when one or both of them can't sleep are plentiful. At first they only stammer through small talk or sit in silence, but with time, the silences grow companionable, and the stories spill out. Other nights Stan spent out under the stars. Other brilliant skies that Ford has kept watch under.

The stories come with an accompanying ache, as they always will, but somehow, it's bearable, in the dark, with the smell of salt and snow all around and the creak and sway of the boat and shifting green and blue lighting each other's faces.

...

This time, the dream does not end with the slow slide into darkness.

This time, the dream ends in an explosion, like the birth of a universe, colour and light, sound and sensation, overwhelming in their suddenness and intensity. The strange peace in the dark is shattered instantly, like the whole world had reared up at once to hit Ford between the eyes.

He wakes up gasping with the lightning-bolt scars on his chest burning, phantom pains of a torture that's long over, and the covers all kicked into a ball at the foot of the bed. 

It doesn't take long for him to decide he won't be getting any more sleep tonight.

...

It starts with little things. Minor anomalies, things Ford can - and does - easily brush off. But as their number grows, he finds himself growing more and more uneasy.

His insides should have cooked. At the very least, he should be having enormous seizures right now due to the damage inflicted on him by Bill's torture. And yet, Ford feels fine. Stanley has more problems with aches and pains than he does, for crying out loud.

And that's another thing. Ford isn't a young man anymore, hadn't been lying when he'd told Dipper that he was looking for someone younger to pass the torch to. And yet, as the cold and the damp settle in around them and Stanley begins to complain of his worsening arthritis, Ford feels...better than ever. No usual old-man aches and pains, no lingering effects from having thousands of volts of electricity pumped through his body.

That would be strange on its own - strange, but not worth immediate further investigation when Stan and Ford are up to their eyeballs in fascinating phenomena of the Arctic Circle. But it's not the only thing that Ford's noticed. Electrical charges still build on him, even under conditions entirely unsuitable for static electricity to gather, and he's strangely certain that the lightning storm that had taken down their mainmast had been drawn their way because of him. And he hasn't been measuring it (yet), but he has an unsettling inkling that the Lichtenberg figures splashed across his chest have been growing when he isn't looking.

He dreams of almost nothing but the moment of dark before the universe supernovas behind his eyes, now.

Something here isn't right.

...

"What are ya doin', poindexter?" Stan sighs, leaning heavily against the cabin door and yawning.

"Taking my vitals," Ford answers, shortly. "Would you help me with this tourniquet? I have several blood samples to draw."

"What, are ya sick or somethin'?" Stan tries to toss the words off like he's nothing but annoyed at the inconvenience, but Ford can hear the note of real worry under the bluster. 

"Not...quite." Ford holds his finger on the rubber band he'd wrapped around his own forearm while Stan ties it off. This would be much easier and more accurate if he had access to his lab, but no, of course, he had to notice that something was off only once they were well on their way to the Arctic Circle...! 

"Not quite? What's that supposed to mean?"

"That I'll tell you when I get the results back. Would you hand me that needle?"

"Sixer, do I have to turn this boat around?" Stan asks, and Ford knows that, if he asked, Stan would do it, with no hesitation. It strikes him, suddenly and like a bolt from the blue, that the boat, the adventures, were never the important parts of Stanley's dream.

"No," Ford says, carefully, trying to sound reassuring. "I'm feeling quite well, I just think this may be related in some way to the anomaly we're going to investigate." He smiles at Stan, and Stan smiles back.

...

He can't run a full complement of tests without all of his equipment, but all of the tests that Ford does run show only normal results. Normal, normal, normal. No trace of ( _"YOU'LL COME AROUND SOON."_ ) anything out of the ordinary. For once in his life, Stanford Pines is glad not to find an anomaly.

That night, for the first time in months, Ford doesn't dream.

...

The days stretch and warp as they approach constant midnight, the aurora now an almost constant presence, often the only light in the sky, looping in elaborate ribbons across the dome of the heavens. There's something comfortingly hypnotic in its gentle undulations, something about the way it moves without seeming to move that eases some barely-noticed tension in Ford's chest. He catches himself, one...day? Evening? Early morning? Whatever the time, he catches himself trying to read the patterns they make, as though they were nothing but an alien language writ particularly large. As though he could simply decipher the world he lives in.

Though, and it takes Ford aback to realise it, isn't that all he'd ever been trying to do, all along?

Stanley finds the lengthening nights and the constant, dancing lights a novelty at first, but as time goes on, he stops remarking on their beauty and starts reminiscing about Jersey sunlight. He often casts a look of concern in Ford's direction when he does so, which Ford can't wrap his head around. He's never been happier in his life. What could possibly be cause for concern?

His dreams are as vivid as the aurora, most nights. They make little sense in the morning, always leaving Ford with a lingering sense of some vast truth barely grazed, falling just out of reach. The dreamlike twilight they sail through doesn't help to ground him any further in reality.

It's irrational, but he feels certain, somehow, that that truth he's glimpsed is drawing ever closer with every nautical mile they proceed towards their destination.

...

"- unusual for this time of year, yeah," Ford overhears an unfamiliar voice saying, as he steps out on deck and starts toward his brother. Stanley's leaning over the railing, apparently conversing with someone in the water. "They're not so bright, usually, or so colourful. And this year they're really dancing."

"Stanley! And - I don't believe I know you," Ford says, leaning over the railing himself. A spark crackles where his left hand comes to rest against the metal pole, and Ford frowns at the slight sting.

The person in the water turns their head in his direction, their long spiral horn lightly scraping the ship as they do so. Ford can't quite tell, a narwhal's face doesn't exactly have human expressions, but he thinks, somehow, that they look alarmed. It might have something to do with the way they paddle abruptly backward at the sight of him. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you -" Ford says, but the narwhal has already ducked their magnificent horn below the water and has begun to dive.

"Huh. Wonder what that was about," Stan says.

"I'm certain I don't know," Ford replies, trying very hard not to acknowledge the feeling of Stan's stare boring into him.

...

Dark hands are all over him, small and soft but insistent and surprisingly strong, holding him in place as he struggles to free himself, pulling him down every time he tries to stand. One brushes gently across his jaw, coming to rest with unexpected tenderness on his cheek. Ford wants to vomit.

He's expecting the eye that opens out of the darkness, huge and detailed, every popping vein and fluttering lash larger than life. He's expecting the voice, the high, nasal shout that's still etched somewhere on the backside of his consciousness. 

"YOU'LL COME AROUND."

One of the hands places itself flat across the centre of Ford's chest, just below the sternum, where most of his scars are centred. He feels his heart race as he pulls futilely against the thousands of tiny, gentle grips holding him down.

The feeling is like nothing he's ever experienced, not even the electrocution comes close. It's as though Bill has somehow punched Ford's ribcage and punched  _through_ , to whatever causes the physical ache in his chest when he reflects on sad memories or memories made sad by time and distance, and has dug his greedy little fingers in. Ford tries to scream, but the instant he opens his mouth, a knot of little black hands all force their way inside. He feels them burrowing down his throat to join the one on his chest in worming their wretched way into whatever part of Ford is  _Ford_. 

Bill's eye swells to fill Ford's vision entirely, and there's a note of gloating triumph in his voice.

"SOON."

Ford wakes up gasping for air, feeling terrified tears streaming down his cheeks, catching in the scruff he's begun to accumulate during his time at sea. He raises a hand up to his chest, to the darker spot of scar tissue that all the other bolts of red lightning radiate out from, and snatches it away with a gasp.

The scar is burning hot under his fingers.

...

He's in the makeshift lab in the cabin ("you can have the table, poindexter, I make  _food_  on that counter") when Stan storms in.

"We've been tiptoing around this for way too long," he says, his voice tight with anger. Ford doesn't raise his head, doesn't stop slowly flicking his pen between his fingers, like a two-bit magician showing off a coin he's about to pull from behind someone's ear. "What the hell is the matter with you? Why are you acting like...like a sick cat? What's with all the sparks? And why did a selkie just tell me that there are 'some things even a prince can't make us get netted up in' and that from here on out I was on my own?  _What the hell is wrong with_  - what the hell is that?"

Ford finally raises his head from the little glass vial he's been studying. Inside, suspended in midair as though gravity doesn't apply, floats something that, though roughly gelatinous in texture, still puts Ford in mind of the aurora dancing outside.

"I don't know," he says. His voice sounds quiet even to his own ears.

Flick. Flick. Flick, goes the pen between his fingers.

"You don't know," Stan challenges Ford, leaning forward across the table to look him in the eye.

Ford looks back down at the little vial, at its mysterious contents, and before he can lose his nerve, says, "It was my blood sample."

"What - oh." Stan's expression shifts, cycling rapidly through a series of emotions, all unreadable. "Oh."

Ford nods.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

"Shit," Stan says, finally, succinctly, and drops into the seat opposite Ford. "Shit. You - what the hell did you do?"

Ford laughs, hollowly. "Well, I think it all started when I found a series of ancient paintings in a cave under Gravity Falls."

"You think that - that -  _Bill_  did something to you?" Stan asks. He spits Bill's name like he can't think of an insult foul enough to compare. Ford finds himself inclined to agree with the sentiment.

"I don't think I survived what he did to try to get me to give up that equation," he admits. His own voice sounds strange, like it doesn't quite belong to him. Maybe it doesn't. The contents of the little vial in front of him are proof enough that what he thinks of as his body isn't necessarily so. "Or, at least, not unscathed. He - he had asked me to join him, at one point. And I thought there were no side effects simply because all the rest of Bill's weirdness was reversed when you defeated him, but -"

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Stan lets out a low whistle. There's something dark under the affected nonchalance in his voice when he says, "Almost makes me wish I could bring him back just so's I could punch him out again."

Ford snorts laughter. It's undignified, silly, and it feels amazing after the day he's had.

Stan seems heartened by it, a smile breaking slowly across his face as he leans across the table. "So does this mean you can do some kinda magic tricks or some baloney?"

"You're not getting me to work as an exhibit at the Mystery Shack, Stanley," Ford says, as sternly as he can manage, which admittedly isn't very.

Stan leans back, looking proud of himself. " 'Course I'm not, I don't run the Shack anymore. Can't speak for Soos, though."

Ford manages a smile, and Stanley's laughter sets the table shaking.

...

Ford hears Stan approaching, but doesn't turn, leaning against the railing encircling the prow and watching the aurora wind its way across the midnight blue. 

"You wanted to see magic tricks," he says, as Stanley's footsteps come to a halt, his presence warm and solid at Ford's elbow.

Stan doesn't say anything, but Ford can feel a kind of puzzled anticipation radiating from him, like soft background music in a crowded place. He's a little amazed, as he lets the feeling wash over him, that he hadn't noticed anything was strange sooner. This is like nothing he's ever experienced before.

There's a growing warmth in his chest, tracing the lightning-bolt lines of his scars, and Ford shuts his eyes. 

Charged particles strike the atmosphere, millions per second, every composite atom burning in such a way that the sensory organ connected to the optical regions of the human brain interprets them as differently-coloured lights. They aren't difficult to manipulate, if you know how. 

When Ford opens his eyes again, there's a blue light visible even through his sweater, pulsing like a heartbeat in time with the  magnificent lightshow overhead.

He chances a glance over at Stan, and is pleased to note that Stan's jaw appears to be dangling somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. He closes his mouth defensively as soon as he notices Ford is looking, giving a shrug that's clearly meant to look grudgingly impressed.

"I dunno, poindexter," Stan says. "Only you would be nerd enough to write 'Kings of New Jersey' in fifty-foot glowing letters in the sky." He bursts into laughter at his own joke moments later.

Their destination is just up ahead. They’ll reach it sometimes in the next few days, Ford knows. If he wanted to, he thinks, he could know exactly when, and what will be waiting for them when they get there. He thinks, though, that for once, he’d rather not know.

For now, he’s content just to enjoy the adventure.

Ford smiles, and Stan smiles back.


End file.
